Happiness
by OurGloryDays
Summary: The pursuit of happiness is what we all desire, but when Germany tries to figure out what exactly it is he is pursuing, he finds his answer in an unexpected stroke of Italian brilliance.


Germany sat, perched masterfully on a low dividing wall in his garden, watching the setting sun. In peace and contented solitude, he watched as the sun dipped just below the tree line, changing the colors of the earth and buildings and other beings and objects, making them all seem beautiful, enchanted.

Long shadows and traced silhouettes marked the ground where the last of the suns rays could not shine, his eyes only able to distinguish where the shadow ended by the slight change in angle of the silhouettes of all around him. Half blinded by gazing for slightly too long at the suns brilliance, he noticed little colored dots appearing in his vision, and when he tore his eyes away to focus on another object, like his rose bush, it all seemed that much more enchanting.

Germany felt as if they were sparkling, his roses, as if they were not only enchanted by the momentary change and added vibrancy in color, but by the tiny dots that speckled his vision. Of course, he knew it was silly, he knew that his roses were not sparkling for him, but it nonetheless made him happy.

For you see, Germany's definition of happy was not like most others, surely, he thought, his was a more refined classification of 'happy.' For a moment, Germany's inner philosopher revealed itself, and he soon forgot of the shifting landscapes and subtle color tonalities, of the way the clouds were always far more wispy and whimsical at dusk then when compared to their consistency at midday, because Germany was pondering happiness- and, in silence, Germany considered why his sparkling roses might make him happy, why they make him want to smile foolishly to himself, pick one, and have its scent breathe new life into his lungs.

He considered how others might find their happiness, and it was easy for him, making lists was practically a skill he was born with. Prussia becomes most happy when he has a hearty brew and is in good company, but Germany already knew this.

"Hmm." He hums to himself, bringing a curled forefinger and slowly active thumb to his chin. He thinks. What of others' happiness?

Austria comes to mind next, and at first the German thinks his happiness comes from snubbing others, until he takes a moment, looking curiously at his roses, and realizes that Austria too has a profound appreciation for beauty, but his is much more aristocratic. Austria's comes from making beautiful music, and Germany decides, this is what brings him true joy.

Smiling fondly to himself, Germany thinks of Switzerland, and again, his first instinct is to believe that the hardened Swiss only finds happiness in his weapons, but after a lingering thought, and perhaps soft laughter from out of eyesight, he rescinds his instinct for something meaningful. Liechtenstein, Germany is certain, is the root of all of Switzerland's happiness, and Germany's thoughts jump back to Prussia, wondering if both Switzerland and Prussia's happiness comes from the desire to see their younger siblings be safe and do well in life.

And soon, his thoughts switch, flicking from one country to the next, but not in a hurried manner, he takes his time, thinking of the others, and wondering what it could be that _truly _makes them, and himself happy. He decides for France that it is the true beauty in life and what comes of it, or for America, it is his achievements that make him happy. For Russia it is simply knowing that he is not alone in the world. For China, it is sharing his culture. For Italy it is…

Germany stops, facing his body forward and staring intently at the elongated shadows on the precisely-cut grass of his garden, he knows what makes Italy happy. Pasta. It's that simple. But it's so material, so… Not what he had been discovering about others, it's not deep, or touching, or relatable in any way to the history that Italy has had.

Germany thinks, and he finds his brows furrowing as he tries to make the connection. How can pasta bring pure joy?

Closing his eyes he considers all the elements of pasta, the food preparation, the cooking, the eating, and the cleaning- all necessary steps to make pasta. He thinks that possibly Italy finds comfort in his old traditions, but he quickly shakes his head- knowing that Italy has never been too traditional.

Opening his eyes, he sees that the sun has completely disappeared below the horizon, and that the world is now coated in a faint glow from the half-lit moon. The moons light and shadows being much more direct and uninviting than the suns warm and welcoming vibrancy. Looking to his roses, he suddenly does not feel that same happiness. Their color has shifted, once so red and lovely, and now darker, blue with black shadows, the roses very buds have become almost menacing.

Germany sinks, dropping his head to stare into his lap. It seems he was wrong about his own happiness, too. Germany's thoughts momentary flick to the idea that nothing makes him truly happy, that there are only fleeting moments of happiness for him, and that he is destined to be a warmonger so long as he shall live.

"Germany?" Italy's voice calls from behind him, and soon footsteps follow, making their way to the German.

"Ja?" He raises his head to find Italy standing beside him, still dressed in his training uniform.

"Hey buddy, what's wrong?" Italy's voice is chipper; his accent slips through his words as he perches himself beside Germany.

"Nothing, Italia."

"Heeeey Germany! I know when something is wrong," Italy nudges him gently with his elbow, smiling brightly, like the suns lost radiance, "now, _dimmi_, is it a lady?"

"What?" Germany straightens his shoulders and puffs up his chest, he reminds himself that he cannot seem weak during wartime. "No, it is not a woman."

"Well," Italy over exaggerates his thinking process by looking up high into the night's sky and stroking his jaw, as if he had a full beard to pull and twist for added dramatics, "if it's not a girl, then what?"

Germany sighs, wondering what his opinion might be if he actually told Italy what was bothering him, that he does not know what makes him happy, wondering if Italy might have insight. Taking a moment, looking at the moon, his thoughts drift to what Italy might give as an answer for his question. Would Italy even pay that much attention to Germany?

Glancing, subtly and briefly out of the corner of his eye, he looks at Italy. The moons pale light does not make the Italian any less beautiful; it does not make him seem menacing like his roses, but the pale glow adds to his already delicate face. It makes him seem inviting, and slightly mysterious.

But most of all, it reveals his wisdom. How many moons had Italy witnessed? How many thoughts and epiphanies must have made their way through the Italian to become who Germany knows him as today?

Believing in his friend, and the power of wisdom that comes from such age and experience, Germany decides he will confide in Italy, just this once.

"Italy," he begins, turning his head to command, or rather ask for, the Italians attention, "what do you think-" and he pauses- what if Italy thinks that Germany's happiness is from war and battle, what if that's what Italy's opinion of him is?

Frowning slightly, and realizing that Italy's opinion mattered to him, in fact it probably meant more to him than a lot of things, Germany decided that he would not ask.

"What do I think?" Italy's tone calmed, as if he could sense the mood, as if he wanted Germany to confide in him, and for reasons he couldn't explain- or possibly couldn't grasp- Germany wanted to. Germany wanted to know what Italy thought of him, Germany wanted to know that his feelings and his happiness weren't strange, and possibly, if Italy felt the same way too.

"What makes you happy?" Germany tried again, thinking a new approach was all he needed.

"Pasta."

"Yes, but…" He struggled for the words, cautious, not wanting to sound facetious, "…why?"

"Ve?" Italy looked up to him, his eyes full of curiosity, as if he'd never been asked such a simple question before. "Why?"

Tired of struggling for words, Germany simply raised his brows, hoping Italy would read into his silent prompt and answer his question.

"It tastes so yummy!" He smiled, his lips curving so masterfully, eyes crinkling at their corners, his playful tone of voice returning full force.

Germany should have guessed it; Italy had always been so simple. He considered the idea that maybe not everyone was a philosopher; maybe not everyone tries to find the deeper meaning.

"Ah." Germany took to admiring the moon, his shoulders slouching slightly as he became more comfortable with the Italian at his side.

"Pasta…" Italy began, unprompted and quietly, "…makes me happy because when we eat, we eat together." Italy tapped a finger to his cheek, again rolling his eyes to admire the night sky. "And when we're together," He paused, glancing at Germany through the corner of his eye, "we're not apart."

"Italia…" Germany did not know what to say.

Germany watched as Italy slowly placed his head on his shoulder, and felt that same tingling sense of happiness he experienced earlier, when the world was illuminated and clear, and he wondered now, would Italy know what makes him happy too?

"Germany." Italy sighed, scooting closer to Germany, their sides pressed against each other, and instinctively, Germany wraps an arm around Italy's shoulders, pulling him that much closer, because he is discovering happiness, and he wants to pursue it, all the while wondering if the bliss will fade, just as his roses did. "I'm happy right now, even without any pasta."

Germany rests his cheek atop of Italy's head, smiling foolishly to himself, because he's just discovered his happiness. His philosopher reasons within that the warm and delicate beauty of his sparkling roses was a faint reminder of Italy, of his warm laughter and presence, of his eyes- always sparkling with hope, of his features, delicate and absolutely unforgettable.

"Me too." He confides, knowing Italy wont fade like his roses.

He realizes that they both desire the same thing, each other.

Lifting his head off of Italy's, he looks down upon his face, to find the other looking back up at him with wide, beautiful eyes set so perfectly in the light, and he can't resist. His heart- his happiness, urges him to express what he can't in words, and so closing his eyes, he bends slightly, feeling one of Italy's hands press gently over his heart, and then feeling their lips meet.

This is truly his happiness.

* * *

_dimmi_ – Italian for tell me.

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed! This is only my second Germany + Italy ficlet so I hope it's up to par!

Anyway, I hope all of you have a splendid rest of your day or night or evening or morning!

Xoxo,

OurGloryDays


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